I met a traveller from an antique
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold
Tell that its sculptor well those passions
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that
And on the pedestal, these words
My name is Ozymandias, King of
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and
Nothing beside remains. Round the
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”